


Good Liar

by orphan_account



Category: Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog (Cartoon), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:46:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scratch insisted he didn't care. Grounder knew otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Liar

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pathetic and invested in the robots from Sonic the Hedgehog now. I relate to Grounder a lot.

"I never knew there was this much _stuff_ in here," Grounder said, surveying the closet shelves with both awe and disgust.

He carefully maneuvered past the junk strewn over the floor. The carton balanced on his outstretched drills wobbled, and a dust-caked picture frame slid over the side of the box. Scratch glanced at Grounder, and squawked in dismay before lunging like football player for a tackle. He skidded over the floor, tightening his shoulders against the scorch of friction, and spread his hands. The picture dropped into his palms without a sound.

Scratch sat upright and examined the picture for a moment before returning his attention to Grounder. His eyes pinched shut in an ugly glare.

"You got screws loose or something? You need to be more careful before you break everything! Dr. Robotnik will turn us both into spare parts if you make a mess of this!"

Grounder raised the carton higher to ward off Scratch's glare. "I didn't mean to. If you didn't pile so much junk into these boxes, maybe it wouldn't happen."

"Will you shut up and help me out?"

"I'm trying, I'm trying." Grounder wheeled around, his tire treads grinding over the floor. "Geez," he muttered. "Somebody's got the pecking order all mixed up."

Scratch bristled. His metallic tail feathers caught the light in sharp strips. "What did you say?"

"Nothing." Grounder trailed out the door, cogs creaking.

When he angled his tires to crank his way around the corner, the edge of the box he held cracked against the doorframe. He gave an "oof" of surprise as the box dug into his front. Wobbling forward, he clutched the box closer in panic before losing traction. His tires jerked to the side, and he lost balance. He swept out his hands to grab at the empty air, and the box hurtled through the air like a bottle rocket. Knickknacks and trinkets trailed behind it like dust from a comet.

Scratch and Grounder both stared, fixated. It seemed to happen in slow-motion. A snow globe met the floor and exploded. Glass splinters skittered in all directions. An instruction manual slapped into the puddle that seeped past the shards of glass. Extra nuts and bolts popped against the ground, bouncing and rolling.

Something banged several doors down the hall, sounding like hands smacking onto a desk in frustration.

"Scratch! Grounder!" The voice was tart and vibrated with rage. The roar echoed, shivering through the corridor like a last shout in a cave. With a muffled squawk that he half-swallowed, Scratch lunged for Grounder and wrapped his arms around his neck, cowering against him.

The banging noise grew more persistent. "What was that racket? What are you two tin-plated excuses doing in there?"

"N—nothing!" Scratch called. His nervous laugh sounded more like distressed clucks. "We're just—cleaning up the supply closet like you told us to, Your Supremeness!"

Grounder would have responded in overenthusiastic agreement had Scratch's wings not been bound around his head so tightly. He felt somewhat as though he were being squeezed by a steel nutcracker. Then again, he mused, Scratch always _had_ called him a nutcase.

In increments, Scratch began to relax. His shoulders drooped and his grip on Grounder's neck slackened. At the opportunity, Grounder dug his drill sockets into Scratch's middle and pried him off. Scratch dropped to the floor in a heap with a reverberating _clang._

Grounder folded his arms over the gauge on his front. He scowled down at Scratch. Scratch hiked his shoulders up defensively and leaned back.

"Why didn't you go ahead and tell him?" Grounder said. He rolled forward a few inches and hunkered over until his nose jabbed at Scratch's face. Scratch leaned back so quickly that the screws in his joints creaked.

"T—tell him what?" Scratch bent his legs and attempted to press further backward, away from Grounder's glare and particularly from his drills. "Tell him that there's a mess in here after we swore we wouldn't break anything? Yeah, I'm just _begging_ to get thrown into the junk pile."

"No!" Grounder jolted forward until his nose poked Scratch's beak. Metal scraped against metal. "Why didn't you tell him that I did it? He's been mad all day because he lost to that hedgehog again, and I bet he would trash us both if we just sneezed the wrong way. And you're mad at me, too," he added. His antenna bent with dejection. "Everybody stays grumpy. It's not _always_ my fault. I don't try to mess everything up on purpose, you know. It's not like I asked to be stupid."

Scratch's eyes widened, then squinted. His fists slowly unfurled. He glanced to the side; Grounder could see his confidence melting away like butter.

"I'm not _mad_ mad," Scratch said quietly—quietly enough to startle Grounder. "It's just that you—well, you make it easy. You get in the way, and hold me back, and make messes and . . . "

Grounder slumped. Scratch blinked in confusion. After a long time of silence, he heaved a deep, long sigh of defeat.

"I don't _hate_ you or anything. Not enough to get you in trouble for something like this, at least." He slid his arms over his chest as if to shield himself, and stared grumpily past the stucco wall. "I mean, you are my little brother and all."

Grounder stopped staring at the floor long enough to glance at Scratch. "So . . . you're not mad at me?"

"I didn't say _that,_ " Scratch said. He tossed his head with a huff, and his rubber comb flopped to the side. "I just said I don't like getting you in trouble when it's unnecessary."

"Because you care?" Encouraged by Scratch's nonchalance, Grounder brightened. A rush of hopeful anticipation made the arrows on his gauges wobble.

"No way!" Scratch swept out his arm and clocked Grounder's forehead with the side of his wrist. The impact reverberated through Grounder's dome to rattle his dials. "It's just that if you get in trouble, I'll catch it bad too, and I already get enough of that! Don't flatter yourself."

Grounder delivered a pitchy moo of delight and clacked his drills together to press them against the side of his face. "Aw, Scratch. You really do care about me."

"I do not!" Scratch's scalloped collar stiffened. He swung away abruptly. His glower could have seared smoldering holes through the floor. "Just—go find a mop or something while I clean up this mess you made before Dr. Robotnik comes in. And make it snappy, why don't you?"

"Okay, okay. I'm snappy-ing." Grounder shifted into reverse, scooted back, and plowed ahead, making a careful detour around the carnage of glittery water and glass. Before he swerved around the corner, he paused. After a minute of pondering, he slowly wheeled backwards to peer back into the closet.

Scratch was bent over the swamp of snow globe sparkles and shattered glass, picking the splinters from the water. Every time he stretched out to dig a shard from the water, the sunlight that strewed through the window sifted past his shadow and illuminated the specks of glitter.

Grounder squinted as he watched. It felt as though the stale oil in his pistons warmed, registering in his mind vaguely as something unusual, but pleasant. Despite the countless times he and Scratch had launched into petty arguments, even one instance of Scratch defending him made all the squabbles and insults seem inconsequential.

On impulse, Grounder backed up further, hooked his drill around the doorframe, and leaned in. When the floor creaked under Grounder's weight, Scratch bristled and whipped around to see.

They stared at each other for a long time. Scratch's face gathered into a glare. The lights behind his eyes flickered in the dark.

Finally, Grounder remembered how to smile.

"I care about you, too, Scratch."

In one swift move he spun around and motored down the corridor, exhaust gushing behind him from the sudden rush of speed. He could still hear Scratch squawking and spluttering five rooms away.

"You moron! You're so irritating! You really scrape my circuits the wrong way—shut up!"

Before Grounder could reply, another bellowing voice blasted down the hall. The lights wavered and the floor vibrated under Grounder's treads.

"What is going on in there? Didn't I tell you two rusty robotic rejects to keep it down and do as I told you? Am I going to have to do everything myself?"

As Dr. Robotnik spewed the threats, he stomped down the hall in heavy, deliberate steps. Grounder peeked over his shoulder. Upon catching a glimpse of Dr. Robotnik's seething glare, he froze. He took only an instant to gather his wits before he swerved around the corner and plastered himself against the wall, breathing in smoke-tinged huffs.

A door slammed. The tremor rattled Grounder's teeth. He waited, tilting his head to listen.

Dr. Robotnik's voice had dulled to a growl inside the closet behind the closed door. The snarly insults made a buzz rise up Grounder's antenna and spark with a pop. He swallowed.

"What is this mess? My supplies, all over the floor? Fragile parts crammed into flimsy boxes? You mechanical moron!"

Scratch's weak laugh trailed off into agitated yapping. "We're working on it, sir, we just ran into a little, um, technical difficulties. That's all, nothing that can't be fixed. I'll have it cleaned up in a jiffy, sir, right away, I'm on it!"

"I ought to deactivate you and that gear-grubbing Grounder on the spot," Dr. Robotnik muttered. He grunted. "Where is that flaky nitwit? I told you both to tidy up in here. With only one useless walking oilcan in here, the job won't get done; with _two_ useless oilcans, it won't be done right, but at least it will be done. Where _is_ that lazy, no-good Grounder? Did he make this mess and run off?"

Grounder sucked in his breath so fast that his circuits sizzled. He angled his tires, ready to skid down the hall the instant the frazzled ends of Dr. Robotnik's mustache poked through the door. His motor regulator throbbed in his middle.

Instead of the explosion of a door thrown open or a lung-tearing yell, the sound that came was Scratch's babbling.

"Of course not, Your Excellence!" he said, his voice pitching up and down with gooey placation. Grounder could picture that sly grin Scratch always wore when slathering on flattery. For once, the thought made his motor jolt enough to make heat flare though the wires.

"Don't bother with him," Scratch was saying in an offhanded way, like an intent salesman dismissing the fact that a warranty covered nothing except avalanche damage. "It'll be a waste of your valuable time. This mess isn't his fault. I just sent him to get a mop. The box was on the shelf and I—backed into it? I wasn't looking where I was going. The lights in here aren't the best; we should really get them replaced. It won't happen again, though, I swear!" Scratch gave a shaky laugh, and it was like a signature written with a flourish on his lie.

"I knew I couldn't trust you idiots to do anything without making matters worse!" Dr. Robotnik spat the _idiots_ with special tart emphasis _._ "I don't know why I've kept you around this long. My insurance rates are climbing faster than my blood pressure. You're just as bad as that bumbling Grounder!"

There was a clang, then a papery rustling, like the pages of a book riffling. Scratch yelped in surprise, as if he had just dodged something.

"Pick up the pace, you blathering duncebot, and you may give Grounder the same message. I want this closet spick-and-span and sparkling spotless for when the new shipment of supplies comes in."

Boots squeaked over the floor. Hinges creaked. The door slammed again. Dr. Robotnik lumbered up the hall without even a further whisper of a threat.

Grounder peered around the corner, watching Dr. Robotnik waddle away. Slowly, he drew back.

_He got me out of trouble again._

Scratch insisted he didn't care. But then again, Scratch was a good liar.


End file.
